


and when i said i love you i didn’t care if you said it back, i ain’t ever loved no one like that

by carpethefanfics



Series: we were just kids when we fell in love [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Artist Ian, Established Relationship, First break up, Implied Sexual Content, Jealous Mickey, M/M, Referenced violence, Swearing, Time Jump, Violence, photographer Ian, reference child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 09:13:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24468529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carpethefanfics/pseuds/carpethefanfics
Summary: Fiona drops a box of Ian's old stuff off to their apartment and the contents inside throw Ian back to a day ten years earlier that is hard to forget .... “You know what- don’t put your fucking shit on me Mickey when you’re the one that’s afraid.” Now that riles him right the fuck up and his head swivels from the bullet riddled wall to meet Ian’s eyes, “I’m afraid? What am I afraid of? What the fuck am I afraid of Ian?” Ian’s right hand lifts to bang against his own chest, “Of me! Of loving me! Of what this could be!”
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: we were just kids when we fell in love [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1764802
Comments: 11
Kudos: 97





	and when i said i love you i didn’t care if you said it back, i ain’t ever loved no one like that

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on the initial work in this series "unless its with you" and inspired me to continue it. 
> 
> Inspired by a scene from Good Will Hunting and the song I Ain't Ever Loved No One by Donovan Woods.

“Do you remember our first break up?”

Ian’s sitting on the couch in the living room of their apartment with an old cardboard box in front of him on the coffee table. It looks a little water-damaged from where Mickey’s standing in the kitchen, but the memory catches him off guard as he chokes on his beer, “Fuck Ian, that was like ten fucking years ago.”

Mickey flips the pancake and turns his head to stare at the back of Ian’s head, watching him rummage through the box, “Why’re you thinking about that?”

Ian swivels to look at him from across the open space of their home and Mickey can see something in his hand, “Fiona dropped a box of shit from the attic off and-and there’s some stuff. Old stuff.”

When Ian looks down again at the images, he feels himself fall back in time to that fifteen-year-old kid with the old, slightly broken hand-me-down professional camera from an arts teacher a lifetime ago.

_Ian feels as angry and betrayed as he feels hopeless and lost. His last moment with Mickey is sweetened with the feel of his lips and marred by way his words sliced up through Ian like a goddamn fucking knife. He wants to chase Mickey down and ask him what he can do so he doesn’t through it all away? So, he doesn’t throw him away?_ _He just aches all the goddamn time. He can’t sleep either and that’s fucking with his head. So, he’s started wandering into the neighbourhood, around the city, wherever the fuck he can. At first, it’s just to take his mind off things but then he finds himself retracing their goddamn relationship like on subconscious level he thinks Mickey might be in those spots again._

_It isn’t until a month into this routine that he brings out his camera. He’s grateful that he did then because he finds it’s his solace. With each click of the lens he feels a sense of closure._

_He stands outside the Kash n’ Grab taking images of the graffiti and the bashed in windows that consume the place. He stands at the baseball diamond and takes shot after shot of the drunken sleeping form of his goddamn father on the dugout bench. It’s when he finally gets to the abandoned building that he breaks the fuck down. Shot after shot of the broken glass and bullet casings that still decorate the floor; shots of the blackened city scape that Mickey had been so eager to focus on rather than him. He leans against the wall and lets the tears stream. He’s cried enough for Mickey. This is fucking enough._

The memory of that day shoots through Ian like he's been struck by lightning.

*

Mickey had never felt like he was enough for Ian.

He remembers seeing him all around the neighbourhood and across the baseball diamond and at the playgrounds because how the hell could you miss that hair? But he remembers _really_ seeing him down the hall one day in this grey shirt with dark sleeves rolled up to the elbow and a pair of black jeans and some disposable camera in his hand that Mickey wants to ask him about. He’s still got the flaming red-hair, but he’s also got this smile that makes his cheeks curve just so and this laugh that Mickey thinks he can actually **feel**. He’s fucking fifteen and this stupid ninth grader has got him staring; has got him going to the Kash n’ Grab just to find out the colour of his eyes and hear the trill of his voice.

They’re _green_ \- because of fucking course they are. Goddamn green… couldn’t be a normal colour, not like brown or some shit, no- the guy had to stick out like a sore thumb or a raging fucking alarm.

It takes no more than a few weeks for Mickey to show up enough- to _steal_ enough- for Ian to get riled up and come over with a fucking tire iron and a blazing look in his eye. That afternoon past in a haze with Ian’s hands gripping his hips, with Ian thrusting up into him like he was fucking born to- they couldn’t turn back then. For a whole goddamn year, they couldn’t turn back. Mickey had finally found something he’d been looking for and he craved it almost as much as he put up his fists to fight it.

Fuck he was afraid- of what he was feeling, of what they were doing, of getting caught, of having to stop, of what it meant when they were together, of goddamn _everything_. Every time he saw the guy, saw he was already looking over at Mickey, there was this swoop in his stomach and this rush of heat to his cheeks. It made him want to punch him and then kiss him and then punch him again. So, he wouldn’t let Ian kiss him; wouldn’t let him talk to him at school; wouldn’t let him tell a single soul unless he wanted his spine pulled up and out his fucking throat.

But he hadn’t expected Ian to fight him on it- to keep fucking geriatrics on the side like Mickey wasn’t enough for him. It made Mickey sick- it made him push and brawl and even though everything inside his head was begging to tell Ian why he couldn’t stand the thought of him with some other fucking guy, he couldn’t. He learned early on people didn’t want to hear what he had to say and that some things just shouldn’t ever be said aloud. They learned much quicker when their nose was bleeding; they focused much faster when they were lying on their back with their head spinning.

“Don’t tell me about my fuckin’ world Ian."

He’s standing in an abandoned building where he’s just emptied a clip into the wall and drained half a bottle of that cheap vodka his brother stashes under his bed when Ian comes up the stairs. Ian wants him to _talk_ ; wants to understand why Mickey’s headbutting that rich fucker in the middle of the street and then telling Ian he’s just a warm mouth a day later.

“I mean- you just wanna have a little fucking fun with a Milkovich then you’re gunna go off to one of those fucking fairy clubs, find a rich old shithead who likes to _take it_ and buy you whatever you goddamn want, right? Probably talk about your days slummin’ it with dirty southsiders huh?”

Ian’s face is all wound up from where he’s standing, “What the fuck are you talking about Mick? Why are you so obsessed with Ned?” Ian takes a step closer to him and Mickey can’t help the way he steps back, the way he turns away, “He just buys me stuff, orders me room service-” Ian takes a pause, his voice unbearably low, “He isn’t afraid to kiss me.”

Mickey hates himself for flinching at that.

“You know what- don’t put your fucking shit on me Mickey when you’re the one that’s **afraid**.”

Now that riles him right the fuck up and his head swivels from the bullet riddled wall to meet Ian’s eyes, “ _I’m_ afraid? What am _I_ afraid of? What the fuck am I afraid of Ian?”

Ian’s right hand lifts to bang against his own chest, “Of me! Of loving me! Of what this could be!”

Ian takes another few steps forward so he’s nearly chest to chest with Mickey and this time Mickey doesn’t move, “You know what? So am I, Mick! But **_fuck it_** , I wanna give it a shot. At least I’m fucking **honest** with you.”

Mickey snarls, “I’m not fuckin honest with you?”

Ian’s hand pushes out to shove Mickey back, “Fuck you Mickey. You can’t even look me in the eye when other people are around.”

Mickey swats his hand away, trying not to let the burning print where Ian’s palm had just rested settle too deeply, “Get the fuck off me!”

Mickey moves towards the doorway when Ian’s suddenly in front of him shoving him back again, that feeling of his hot palm on Mickey’s chest is searing, “No, you’re not _fucking_ leaving. You don’t get to run!”

Mickey grabs hold of Ian’s forearm and tries to yank it away, tries to step back from the way Ian’s crowding into his space, “Talk to me Mickey for fucks sake- look at me!”

He isn’t sure he can. He doesn’t know what to say or how to respond. He doesn’t know whether he wants to say enough to shove Ian away from him or say nothing at all to shove Ian the fuck away from him. His head is pounding and Ian’s way too fucking close. _God this is so much_ \- _too much_. He’s losing him and it’s his own fucking fault and that’s the way it has to fucking be. His blue eyes meet those familiar green and he feels a fucking dam inside him burst, “What? What do you wanna hear? You wanna hear I like dick? You wanna hear Terry would fucking shoot me in the head and weigh me down into the fucking Chicago river if he heard that?”

Mickey’s shoving Ian now and Ian’s stumbling back on his heels from the force behind Mickey’s weight blundering into him, “You don’t wanna hear that I got fuckin’ cigarettes put out on me when I was a kid. That this-” Mickey uses one hand to lift his shirt and display a familiar scar Ian had run his fingers over time and time again- “wasn’t from fucking surgery- the mother fucker stabbed me! You don’t wanna hear that shit Ian!”

Ian can feel the tears welling in his eyes, “I do wanna hear it Mickey- I do, I wanna help you!”

Mickey’s eyes shoot wide from the look on Ian’s face, “Help me?! What the fuck?! What I got a fuckin’ sign on my back that says, ‘save me’?”

Ian wants to reach for him, pull him against this chest, wants to fucking _kiss_ him, “No Mick-”

Mickey whirls back towards the open windows; he needs to get away from Ian, needs out of his fucking space, “Do I look like I need you?!”

Ian is standing still, the tears now dribbling down his cheeks, “I just wanna be with you.”

Mickey can’t help but scream, “Don’t bullshit me!”

Then Ian’s voice is fucking trembling, “I love you!”

Mickey hesitates- his shoulders are tense, his eyes are focused outside on the aerial view of Chicago, but his fucking ears are pounding with blood, his chest is heaving. He feels like a wild dog. He isn’t sure he heard Ian right, but he doesn’t want to ask him to repeat himself. He can’t _hear_ it- He can’t _feel_ it. And he’s almost so sure Ian doesn’t mean it that it makes him feel like Ian’s being fucking **_cruel_**.

Mickey turns to look at him with this truly menacing look- furrowed brows and gritted jaw. Ian knows that look, “You wanna fag bash Mick? Huh? That make you feel like a man? Go ahead! Do it!”

Mickey doesn’t even hesitate to charge forward and let his right hook slam into Ian’s ribs. As Ian keels forward, at the grunt of the impact, Mickey can’t help but murmur to himself, “Fuck.” He hates himself for hitting Ian- hates that his reaction is always fucking volatile and violent. Truly his father’s fucking son.

But Ian doesn’t stop, his voice comes out strained, “You love me, and-and you’re gay.” He’s practically begging Mickey, “Just admit it, just this once. Fucking admit it!” Mickey walks back, he has every intention of letting his fist rock into Ian’s jaw, to let the blood that’ll pool into his mouth shut him the fuck up, but as Ian’s head lifts, he speaks again, “Say you don’t. Tell me you aren’t.” Ian holds his gaze and it tears Mickey up that he can see hope there, “And I’m gone- and I won’t be in your life anymore.”

Mickey knows he’s right- of course he **loves** Ian; is _in fucking love_ with Ian. He wonders how long Ian’s known. He wonders if Ian realized it in all those small goddamn moments that Mickey let him take it further- moments he let Ian’s hot open mouth trail down the side of his neck; let Ian tightly interlock their fingers as he thrust into him; let Ian’s hand rest against his thigh when they’re watching another movie in the quiet of his living room.

It takes everything inside of him to stand in front of Ian and know this is probably the last time he’s going to get anything from him. So, as Ian curls back up, his hand still bracing his ribs, Mickey steps forward. He lets his hand rise slowly to cradle Ian’s face; his thumb swiping over his cheekbones which he can feel are still damp. Ian’s searching his eyes so solemnly it almost hurts Mickey for what he’s about to do. He leans in, pressing his mouth against Ian’s, letting the taste consume him for a few seconds, letting what they had consume him more. Ian doesn’t hesitate to lean fully into him- to open his mouth to Mickey, to reach out and touch Mickey so gently he wonders if Ian thinks he could break him. More likely Ian thinks he could scare him away. And fuck- Mickey _drowns_ in it- in how easy it is for Ian, despite everything Mickey’s said to him, to wade into his bullshit. Because then Mickey pulls back, his hand dropping from its place on Ian’s cheek, his eyes definitely not able to meet those familiar green ones, “I don’t love you.”

He doesn’t even look back as descends the stairs and fucking **runs**.

*

“Hey,” Mickey’s voice is soft and his hand on Ian’s back pulls him into reality, “Where’d you go?”

Ian’s still standing in their living room with his hands holding the old photographs and the box of stuff before him. Mickey’s next to him now with a furrowed brow and softly parted lips. Ian leans forward to capture them quickly; that day in the abandoned building had been one of the first of many heartbreaks he would experience with Mickey and it welled up inside him. He needed to feel Mickey; to ground himself in the future they had. Mickey kisses back deeply, his hand on Ian’s back wrapping into his shirt and his other moving to Ian’s neck. When they break apart Mickey’s voice is warm, “What was that for?”

Ian turns back to look at the photos, “I love you Mick.”

“I love you too Ian.”


End file.
